Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 22

Miguel continues the march along the path, but people remind him to slow down. He might zoom past what he needs from the Camino.

In the morning, I sought out small patches of grass to cushion my feet. I stopped praying and tried to use my God-given brains to help my feet. Is the pack too heavy? Maybe? Can part of my first aid kit or some clothes be tossed? The repair kit? The camera charger? I went over the list in a desperate litany for the better part of the morning. Sandra said nothing until she pointed to another place for coffee like the morning before. It was about 11:00 when we stopped. I eyed my pack, the salt stains on the straps I had tried to wash off. No, I needed everything in there. I lifted the bag to test its weight. It was not that heavy, no more than nine kilos. No, I’m not carrying too much. The warm coffee arrived and its strong scent reminded me of Krakow and Vienna as well as a couple of cafés in Prague. I looked down at my cross trainers. It’s the shoes. It’s the shoes! In all of those cities I had walked and walked for hours on a skimpy pair of thin-sole sneakers—fashionable, but offering little protection. These sneakers posed a similar problem. Designed for running, they could absorb my body weight, but not the extra weight of a pack. They’re the problem. Now what do I do? I can’t break in new shoes this far into the walk. Replacing them as Anna had was out of the question. Before me there was another thirty-five-kilometer day. I would have to figure it out as I went.

In the meantime, the narrative did not change once we were walking again. Sandra would spot some figures or building on the horizon, and they became her target to race toward. This one happened to be an old man. He saw us approaching and moved to the side of the road.

“Buen día,” he said.

“Buenos días,” I replied.

“Why so fast?” he asked.

“We don’t have much time,” I said, chasing after Sandra.

I looked back and heard him say, “That’s not how you do the Camino.”

He was right. Hell, my feet knew that. You will always have the Camino, but we’re not from around here.

He called again, “Slow down, you’ll miss the signs.”

Signs? What signs?

There was only one sign here, on the side of the road. It said Castrojeriz—the town with a castle on a hill at the far end of the road. The gray foam of the morning clouds dissolved in the sun as its rays came up behind us. Sandra stopped to drink some water. The old man we had passed caught up to us. Beige dust covered his shirt and black pants. He removed his beret. The white stubble on his face resembled the needles of a cactus and sun spots marked his cheekbones. He wheezed as we walked.

“You will also miss the history,” he said pointing to the ruins of what seemed like an old church. He provided a short lesson.

Trees had grown around the convent that once belonged to the Antonianos, a religious order born in France in 1095. At its height, the order ran some 400 hospitals throughout Europe, their size and reach due to their ability to cleanse a disease known as St. Anthony’s Fire, said to be similar to leprosy—probably herpes, zoster or shingles. The Antonians constructed their hospitals outside of towns and cities to prevent the spread of the infirmity.

Two arches jutted out of what was once the main entryway to the church. What remained of the interior was sealed off and silent.

“It’s not dead,” the old man said. “It’s being rebuilt—slowly, thanks to the rebirth of the Camino. It had been closed for one hundred years. You see the cross up on the rose window—the Greek letter Tau, like the one I’m wearing?”

“Isn’t it the cross of St. Francis?” I asked.

“Yes, but not originally. It’s a symbol of life or resurrection.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He noticed my pensive look while he spoke, then he said, “Listen to the Camino. Allow it to revive or restore what you’ve lost. Like it is doing to this building.”

With those words, the trance that had gripped during the race to Santiago began to lift away. I realized that I would have to let Sandra march on without me.

He smiled and walked away. “Buen Camino.”

We continued into Castrojeriz and he called, “You will find what you need. Be open. If you can, stay the night. Go to the castle.”

The ancient castle loomed over Castrojeriz; vivid copper light fashioned it into a proud edifice on a steep hill. It called us to delay our march, or in my case, the decline of my physical condition. When a wave of pain again clamped my feet, it held them, then loosened into a constant tingling. It did just the same after we left the old man; I don’t know if that is what brought me to a stop or if my mind simply stopped my legs from moving forward, but whatever the reason, when I paused at the Colegiata de Nuestra Señora del Manzano, Sandra assumed I wanted to take pictures and handed me her camera. She signed with her right hand and pointed to the building. “Sí, sí, sí,” I said, figuring it would lengthen the pause. I set my pack against the stone fence that surrounded the Colegiata’s courtyard and walked in, looking for a good angle on the tenth century building. I could not walk in to pray, so instead I walked away from Sandra, praying on foot.

“I know that I had to leave Anna, but now I feel as if I have to slow down. My feet are telling me that. Yes, I came here to get over Beatrice; to bury what happened, but how is that supposed to happen? All I’ve done is walk, walk and walk, and I’m sick of it. How will slowing down help?”

I moved a few meters and snapped some pictures of a wall and the building’s bell tower. The castle stood far away, aloof, and I stood silent just staring at it, thinking how tired I felt throughout my entire being. When I returned to Sandra, she had been shuffling through her bag. Other pilgrims walked about in the town’s narrow streets and into its small shops and the cafés.

One pilgrim, in a bulky red pack that bore a Japanese flag, was buying postcards. A breeze lifted the long, multicolored scarf tied to her bag. Its bold hues shone in the light as it flapped and rested again. It can’t be. Although it was hard to make out, it was unmistakable. It was the scarf that pilgrims to the World Youth Day in Rome had received. The orange geometric representation of the colonnade in St. Peter’s Square and the Italian words were unmistakable. What? It couldn’t be a coincidence. We walked past her and I looked back. She was Japanese: the flag patch confirmed that as did her Asian features. Does she know Spanish or English? Sandra stopped me and mimed drinking from a bottle. Yeah, yeah…let’s stop. Go get some water. The pilgrim paid for the postcards and continued toward us. She was alone.

“Hola,” I waved.

“Hola,” she answered in perfect Spanish.

“¿De dónde eres?” I asked, surprised.

“I’m from Japan.”

“You speak Spanish, with an accent from Spain.”

“I can tell you’re Mexican,” she chuckled. “Right?”

“Yes,” I answered as Sandra returned from the store. “I’m Miguel, this is Sandra.”

“I’m Sakura.”

“How do you know Spanish so well?”

“I’ve been studying here for a year. I came to learn, but I learned some in Japan.”

“Really?’

“I’m Catholic, part of a small community in Japan, and most Latinos in Japan are Catholic. We would get together with them for Mass and the holidays.”

“That’s cool. So, you were in Rome?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m wearing the scarf on my pack.”

It had to be a sign. Was I getting desperate? I mean, maybe I was just looking for anything to cling to that past. She continued talking while I was lost in my thoughts. I quickly refocused on what she was saying.

“A few people have identified it, that’s why I brought it. I have great memories of Rome and Italy.”

“How long have you been walking?”

“I began in Somport about a month ago.”

“A month ago?”

“Yes, I wanted to take my time and make the most of it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do this again.”

This connection to Italy flooded my mind with my first memories of Beatrice: the serendipitous meeting in Modena as the sun was setting. Her eyes were so open and honest. We shared our first words, and our first handshake. She was standing by that tree, not too far from the church. I introduced myself, unaware that our lives would change from that evening forward.

Sakura kept talking, but I interrupted.

“I was at that World Youth Day, too.”

“You were?”

“Yes, and I have great memories from that summer too. It was beautiful to be with people from all over the world.”

“Yes, it was. And why are you here?”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the real reason.

“I just finished school. I was studying in Prague and decided to come. I needed to think before taking the next step.” Same story. It was also true.

“Oh, I see.”

“And why are you here?”

“Like I said… I don’t know if I will ever have the time to do this again and I also wanted some time and space to think before returning to Japan.”

Sakura tied her hat under her chin and adjusted her glasses as we left Castrojeriz and walked toward the Alto de Mostelares, a steep hill. From there, we would descend toward Itero de la Vega crossing into the Palencia region. Sakura said she was slow, but she seemed to be inching along and climbing was fun—so I broke ahead and scrambled up. I peeled an orange as I caught my breath on the dry, rocky hilltop where a few shrubs and short trees struggled to survive. They were shriveled, close to the ground and skeletal. Sakura and Sandra were still close to the foot of the hill. By some miracle, Sandra slowed down to wait for our new friend. The valleys on either side of the hill didn’t look much greener, but they were sliced into inflexible squares, so that all life-giving properties could be squeezed out of the pliable soil—not one centimeter was unused. I looked back before starting down. Another breeze lifted Sakura’s scarf again. They were walking slowly, giving me a chance to walk alone. The words of the old man, and the scarf that had traveled to Japan and then back to Europe, made me question the blind drive to Santiago.